


en garde

by partywitharichzombie



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: (George is still an F1 driver), Alternate Universe - Sports, Cameos by Jack A. and Callum I., Chance Meetings, Excessive and Blasphemous Usage of Britishisms, Fencing, Fluff, M/M, Olympic Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:35:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29349798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partywitharichzombie/pseuds/partywitharichzombie
Summary: NHK is broadcasting reruns of some of today's and yesterday’s Olympic events—swimming is on. Men’s individual medley just ended, another medal to Phelps’s tally. George is already watching with his eyes half shut, teetering on the edge of wakefulness, when the broadcast cuts to another sport. He’s never watched fencing before, but perks up when he catches a glimpse of the Union Jack.GBRL. Norris4-2J. VergneFRANow hold on second. That fencer sure looks familiar—what thefuck. L. Norris.Lando Norris.(George chances upon Lando in Tokyo.)
Relationships: Lando Norris/George Russell
Comments: 12
Kudos: 69
Collections: F1 Soup Kitchen Chocolate Box 2021





	en garde

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteWolfCraft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteWolfCraft/gifts).



> To my dearest M [WhiteWolfCraft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteWolfCraft/pseuds/WhiteWolfCraft), I hope you enjoy this to an extent even if it's probably the furthest take from what you had in mind. It was quite a challenge tackling a prompt that isn't quite in my wheelhouse, but I had tons of fun. And thank you for inadvertently making me fall in love with fencing!
> 
> Dearest [wintrs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintrs/pseuds/wintrs)... thank you for beta reading this fic and doing the much, much needed heavy lifting. Couldn't have done this without you. I really can't thank you enough...
> 
> Thank you to the Soup Kitchen, especially to Kim [ambiguouspace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambiguouspace/pseuds/ambiguouspace) and Len [ssilverarrowss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssilverarrowss/pseuds/ssilverarrowss), for listening to all my woes, ramblings, and breakdowns throughout writing this. For all the encouragement, the :bonk: emojis, the Word Sprints. You are the real ones.
> 
> And once again, thank you to Vio [legendofthefireemblem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/legendofthefireemblem/pseuds/legendofthefireemblem) for organizing this exchange :)
> 
> Same drill as the last time: Started a draft for another prompt, binned it, switched to another one, binned that one too, started this one, went through several breakdowns... Bon appétit... and happy Valentine's <3

It’s much too easy to feel lost in a megalopolis of thirty-eight million, always alive and ticking no matter how advanced the hour may be. Traffic flows through the bustling streets of the downtown Tokyo area to the neighboring districts and prefectures like blood pumping through veins. Residents returning home from their nine-to-fives—or more like nine-to-whenever the boss finally leaves—as well as tourists from the worlds over energize the city with an electrifying buzz unlike any other cities George has been to.

As he stumbles his way through his ramen order, gesticulating so the shopkeeper takes it correctly, he really is starting to regret declining the offer to have a tour guide and interpreter with him. Not his wisest decision. Especially so when even more people are here in Tokyo than usual, travelling from all over the world to witness the world’s best athletes compete in the pinnacle of all competitions, the last peak for them to conquer: the Olympics.

He’d spotted some of the athletes earlier today on his morning jog and just moments ago while walking through the streets of Akihabara. They travel in groups like pack animals, their jackets bright with the colors of their flags and national insignia, some of which he cannot place— _ was that a group of Thai athletes? No, no, he _ knows _ the Thai flag, his best friend is Thai. Probably Cambodia, then. _

It almost feels like a miracle to be standing here, everything almost returning to a semblance of normalcy. George does wonder how it must have felt like for the Olympians, having to adjust mentally to not being able to compete after having qualified for and gone through the gruelling training program to prepare for the games. The relief they must be feeling now. He knows it all too well—sim racing only scratched the itch for so long. Pulling his car into the gridspot at Spielberg last year, albeit in seventeenth, felt like returning to the arms of someone so dear.

And George very much wants to be in contention for gold one day, of course, the most coveted title of all—the World Drivers’ Championship. Which plays a part in why he is here and not with his family at home or on vacation with his friends. Having to tell Alex and Lily he wasn’t coming to Los Angeles at the very last minute was excruciating, but when the overlords tell him what to do and where he needs to be, declining is never an option.

His contract is with Williams, sure, but Mercedes dictates his career still, and so here he is mere two days after the Hungarian Grand Prix: two weeks of being in Japan for sponsorship duties and then to compete in the 6 Hours of Fuji to promote Mercedes’s entry into the Hypercar category of the World Endurance Championships next year.

It should’ve been Stoffel, but being one of the favorites to clinch the Formula E title, they wouldn’t pull him out for pageantry, would they? They couldn’t possibly make Lewis do it either, Guti doesn’t currently hold a super license, and Fred is much too inexperienced still.

Which leaves him and Valtteri.

Well, Valtteri  _ volunteered. _ And when George asked him  _ why _ when they passed each other on his way to the loos aboard their twelve-hour flight from Heathrow, Valtteri simply said, “I like racing,” the mad man.

A paid vacation with a couple of gala dinners and events to attend and then a race to compete in really doesn’t sound too bad, but still. It helps that Tokyo is a great city to experience and explore. There are worse places to be.

He hits  _ like _ on the photo Tiffany shared on Instagram of Valtteri and her with the Sensō-ji Temple in the background before putting his phone away to tuck into his noodles.

Not only does he feel lost, George feels rather lonely as well now. Brilliant.

He slurps the last of his noodles as loud as he can manage—he’s been told that not only it’s not considered impolite, it’s actually very much encouraged. The savory, rich miso broth spreads a comforting warmth through his abdomen, offsetting the chill from the damp t-shirt clinging to his skin from having to run for shelter through the summer rain. He makes a mental note to get a brolly. Aleix really wouldn’t approve of him ignoring his strict diet, but it’s the summer break and Aleix is nine time zones away from being able to properly give him stick for it.

_ “Arigatou,” _ George thanks the shopkeeper with one of the only three Japanese words he knows, stumbling through the syllables with an atrocious accent as he sets down the exact bill on the counter. He ignores the wince and snicker from the couple sitting next to him, makes for the exit with his lips pressed tight. Serves him right for being so painfully monolingual, he really should continue his German lesson on Duolingo.  _ Where to next? _

He stops and retreats to the side of the street, fishing his pocket guide book out of his rucksack and flipping through the dog-eared pages. The last light of the day is on the verge of its last gasp, the now-clear sky a symphony of scarlets and tangerines, but the neons and streetlights are yet to be lit. He looks around and spots a vending machine, uses its light to illuminate the book.

There’s a store that caught his interest when he leafed through the guide book on the flight. Google Maps tells him it’s nearby. So he types in  _ Super Potato _ and trusts the app to lead him the right way.

Stepping into the store hits George with a bout of nostalgia, and he can’t help but grin.

Gaming consoles he, Cara, and Benjy grew up with are lined up in rows after rows of display shelves, everything a retro game enthusiast could possibly dream of. It’s only him and a handful more people browsing through the aisles. The stark white hue of the tube lights reminds him of the DVD rental store he used to frequent with Benjy as a kid. As he climbs the stairs to the top floor where the arcade games are, he makes a mental note to pick up a classic Game Boy.

Rows of arcade machines greet him when he hits the top step.  _ Super Mario, Donkey Kong, Golden Axe, Street Fighter 2 _ —he is truly spoiled for choice. Not unthinkable that heaven  _ is _ here on earth. He passes a group of tourists speaking in what he’s quite sure is rapid Italian before taking a seat at an arcade cabinet at the farthest side of the room, reaches into his wallet for coins.

_ “No, no, no, no, no—fucking hell!” _

George’s ears perk up at the wails and hollers coming from behind him.  _ Ah, a compatriot. _ He shifts in his seat and turns around.

The person in question has the hood of their jumper drawn up, head resting on the panel of the arcade machine as they groan in defeat. The screen shows that they were just a few points short of breaking the highest score of Super Mario.

“Ah, bummer, you were so close, mate,” George remarks, hoping to catch their attention. The person snaps up and turns to face him.

“Can’t go anywhere without us geezers running into each other, eh.”

He tugs on the hood to reveal a curly mess of a hair, smiling as he runs his hand through it in an attempt to bring it to a semblance of order. It only makes his hair stick up on its end. He has to be about George’s age, should he take a guess.

“S’pose so. Got to escape our fine weather at every chance. My flight here got delayed three bloody hours by a storm,” George offers lamely. Smooth, very smooth. Run into a fit bloke and all he can think of is talk about the weather back home. He clears his throat, feels it click. “Fancy a round of Street Fighter?”

“Only if you want your arse handed to you,” he taunts, grinning as he pushes himself up from his stool, crossing the short distance to sit next to George.

George can’t help but scoff and laugh. “We’ll see about that.”

* * *

(Yes, he does notice the pink-purple-blue enamel pin on his backpack.)

* * *

(And yes, he does take quite a beating, but it doesn’t feel anywhere near as disappointing as parting with mere exchanges of  _ see you around, mate. _

Such is the nature of life, he reckons. Fleeting.)

* * *

_ “Oh, bollocks!” _

Of course at the least convenient of times he forgets one of the most important things to remember when in Japan: _ carry enough cash. _ Credit and debit cards seem to not have caught on here just quite yet. And of course he is short a couple hundred yen to buy himself a metro ticket back to the Ritz-Carlton. Just his luck.

George lets out a frustrated sigh as he hits the  _ cancel transaction  _ button on the touchscreen of the ticket machine. The robotic voice of the machine and the sound of clattering coins are mocking him. He shouldn’t have spent so much money on the Game Boy and playing arcade games at Super Potato. It’s only a quarter to nine but he knows finding ATMs will probably be tricky. The tourist information center is long closed. Splendid.

He contemplates walking back, but quickly scratches the option off his mental list when he consults Maps and finds out that the Ritz-Carlton is almost ten kilometers away. Try to find a taxi and hope they accept his credit card? _ Call Valtteri and ask if he is in the area or if he has some cash to lend him upon arrival at the hotel? _ The very thought makes him cringe.

“Alright, mate? Need a hand?”

The West Country lilt is familiar. “Oh hey! You’re—from the arcades!”

“Ran out of cash?” The lopsided grin carries a hint of amusement and pity, almost playfully mocking and teasing. It should annoy him,  _ dance on my grave and laugh at mystery now, would you, kind stranger,  _ but he finds himself not minding.

George grins too, sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, rookie mistake, I s’pose. Sort of your fault for egging me on to play another round, mate.”

“Guilty as charged,” he holds up his hands in mock defense. “First time here?”

“No, I’ve been, but—” George hesitates, stopping himself from saying  _ usually I’m dropped off at Suzuka from the airport, race, and fly back after the Grand Prix. _ “Never really had the chance to be out and about in Tokyo.”

“We can share a cab.”

“Oh no, I’m just short a couple hundred yen for the Metro ticket.”

“Nah, it’s cool. I don’t have to pay the fare myself. Where are you staying?”

“It might be quite a detour, I couldn’t possibly—”

“Look, it’s getting late. You could be stuck here for hours trying to find an ATM or taxis that take cash.” He shrugs, raises an eyebrow. “I need to be back by half nine. Your call.”

“The Ritz,” George finally answers, grimacing.

“The Ritz,” he repeats to himself. He pulls out his phone as they make their way to the taxi service point, to consult Google Maps George assumes, nodding before putting it back to the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie. “It’s sound, only a bit of a detour.”

George follows him into the cab, the door automatically closing. He smiles to himself, remembering the first time he visited Japan many years ago as a boy, almost getting the opening door of a taxi slammed against his mug. The driver asks for their destination in Japanese. “Ritz-Carlton Hotel,” George answers, deliberately slowing his speech.

For a moment, silence settles between them. The burst of colorful lights of the storefronts and ad boards illuminate the otherwise dim interior of the taxi, a dance of red, blue, green. He leans forward, nose almost touching the windowpane. Tokyo won’t lose its novelty anytime soon, George thinks. It’s much too easy to feel lost and  _ be _ lost in a megalopolis of thirty-eight million. Sometimes a stranger’s kindness is what it takes to save and make his night— 

_ Bloody hell, he hasn’t even introduced himself. _

“So uh,” George begins, clears his throat. “George.” He smiles and holds out his hand, suddenly feeling awkward.

He looks up from his phone almost in a daze, tilts his head in puzzlement before taking George’s hand in a haste. “Oh! Lando.”

The handshake lingers a space between two heartbeats too long, and George wills himself not to think about it.

“Somerset?” George prompts. There is an additional twang to Lando’s accent he can’t quite place still.

“Thereabout, yeah. Let me guess—Midlands?”

“Norfolk.”

“Right. What brings you to Tokyo? Business or pleasure?”

_ Could be both if you’re keen. _ “Business.” Fuck it, he might as well shoot his shot. “Are you staying for long?”

“Just for the duration of the Games.” There is a careful slowing to Lando’s speech that George can’t quite decipher. He doesn’t press on.

“At least allow me to treat you to sushi—you know, as a thank you. I’ll make sure I have enough cash with me.”

“Eh, not a huge fan of sushi or like, raw fish in general, mate, sorry.”

George presses his lips into a thin smile and faces away from Lando, settling back into his seat. He really shouldn’t be presumptuous. “Fair enough. But seriously though, thank you. Still a bit jet lagged and I’ve got something important tomorrow. Didn’t exactly plan on getting stranded in the middle of Tokyo.”

“S’all good.”

The ride continues in silence. The taxi passes Tokyo Tower, approaches Roppongi. George can see the building of the Ritz-Carlton when they pull into the taxi stand by the Tokyo Midtown shopping mall. The hotel is a short walk away.

“Well, this is me,” George says, picking up and shouldering his rucksack. “Cheers again, mate.”

He has to stop himself from flinching in surprise when he feels warmth against his fingertips. Lando pries his phone away from his hand, points the screen towards his face so it unlocks. He is too stunned and distracted with the way the screen illuminates Lando’s face, accentuating the curl of his lashes and the wicked smile playing at the edge of his lips, to lodge in a proper protest as Lando typed away. Not long after, George hears the buzzing of a phone.

“There, you got my number now and I got yours too. I’m a bit busy through Saturday, but Sunday might work, if you fancy grabbing a bite? Not sushi, though, yeah?”

“Oh—yes, sure, brilliant!” The taxi door opens. He stammers out a thank you to the driver and steps out. Maybe second chances do present themselves after all. Even if his pride has to be knocked down a peg or two first by what quite frankly is a silly oversight. “See you around—Lando.”

“See you around, George.”

* * *

Half nine in the morning is still a bit early for lunch, but because the stores of the Tsukiji Outer Market typically close at noon, they agreed it’s a good time to meet up. The stores and vendors don’t usually open at all on Sundays, but the Games brings business and the vendors are not about to miss this opportunity.

George steps out of the Metro at the Tsukiji Station where they agreed to meet, armed with a travel card and what he hopes is more than enough cash this time. No need to embarrass himself in front of Lando twice. George spots him in no time, the bright orange cap he is wearing setting him apart from the crowd.

The sponsorship event on Friday went by in a breeze,  _ smile and wave, recite your lines. _ It was quite obvious that everyone’s attention was focused on the opening ceremony of the Games later that day, no time was wasted on pleasantries. With eyes from all over the world trained upon them, the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games is the host’s moment to show off, and Japan surely didn’t disappoint. George only caught a glimpse of the broadcast before sleep took him, the last traces of jet lag still weighing him down.

Lando looks up from his phone, and smiles so bright it almost leaves him tongue-tied. He looks—good. Radiant.  _ Euphoric, _ almost? George can’t quite pinpoint it, but there is something different in the way he carries himself—sure, they’ve only met once briefly. He might simply be reaching. But it’s an almost familiar shift, something he feels he’s seen enough times before.

“Alright, mate?”

“Alright?” George smiles back at him, not sure whether to go in for a handshake or a hug. They ended up in an awkward side-hug instead. “So. S’pose you’re more familiar with Tokyo than I am?”

“I’ve been a few times over the years, yeah,” Lando confirms, shrugging. “Thought it’d be nice to try out some street food, and then we can sit down for a proper lunch later. I hope this one stall is open, they serve some killer yakitori.”

“Sounds like a plan. Lead the way, mate, _ I’m starving _ .”

The Tsukiji Outer Market is—overwhelming, almost, with rows and rows of vendors offering some of the finest the Japanese cuisine has to offer. It rained earlier, the scent of earth mixing with the smell of the sea from the catch of the day and the wafting aroma of green tea being brewed at the next vendor over is not exactly a combination that sounds attractive on paper, but it’s  _ invigorating. _ He hasn’t had coffee this morning—one thing he promised his coach to keep in check while he destroys every other aspect of his diet—but just being in the market wakes him right up, energizes him.

They are tucked away at a side street, hidden away by a row of vending machines. The yakitori—grilled skewered chicken with soy sauce glaze—is something Aleix wouldn’t scold him for, George thinks, so he goes for seconds. It really is as good as Lando said it was.

“I could have this for breakfast, lunch, and tea,” George says, mouth still half-full. Bad manners, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“Told you. There were rumors that the market would close in 2018 and I was  _ devastated.” _

“You really do visit quite often, huh.”

“S’pose so.” Lando fidgets, rubbing his neck and fiddling on a colorful lanyard hidden underneath the neckline of his t-shirt. George wonders how he hasn’t noticed it earlier—it reminds him of paddock passes and access cards he would wear at grands prix weekends. The logo on the lanyard is of the Olympics. 

“Your lanyard—are you going to see any of the Olympic events?” George asks, pointing at Lando. Tentative. “I saw a bit of the opening ceremony. Would be nice to see something live, but this—trip was a bit spontaneous.”

“A couple. I don’t really have a lot of free time, so I can’t watch as much as I’d like. Bit of a shame really.”

“Yeah. Quite mad that we’re here like, at all. After, well—everything, come to think of it.”

“Absolutely, yeah.” Lando takes a sip of the Pocari Sweat he bought from the vending machine next to them. “Genuinely thought I’d never make it.”

The small smile on his lips carries more than a hint of a secret, but George decides to leave it be. Even if he thinks they can talk about everything and nothing, sometimes it feels like he is breaching into hazardous territory. So he doesn’t question what Lando meant, hoping he’d return the favor.

This is a chance to be anonymous, and George probably shouldn’t take it for granted—not that he has the star power to be recognized on the streets anywhere just yet. There’s still comfort in being somewhere foreign, however, just another face in the crowd. Almost as if they were encased in a time capsule, trapped in a liminal space. And he intends to keep it that way for as long as possible.

“So,” George pushes himself off the wall he was leaning against, “where to next?”

“Any objection to booze before noon? I don’t like, drink often, actually. Don’t fancy the taste of alcohol much. But anyway—my former teammate showed me this ice cream place and I’ve been craving it all year. You’ve got to try the cherry blossom-flavored one! Has sake in it but it’s seriously good.”

“Oh mate, you’re absolutely hellbent on destroying my diet plan, aren’t you.”

“I’ve got to drag you down on my level,” Lando grins, then downs his bottle of Pocari. George really shouldn’t be too focused on the way his Adam’s apple moves as he drinks.

“After you,” George bows mockingly and waves his hand with flourish after Lando finishes drinking. It earns him a vicious elbow to his side, jostling him against the side of the vending machine, scrambling for purchase as he loses his balance. But before he falls Lando’s hands are on his sides, anchoring him. And—oh. They are face to face. Close, too close.

This is a bad, terrible,  _ horrible _ idea.

But the side street is empty and they are secluded from view by the rows of vending machines, and Lando’s looking up at him through his eyelashes with a look that makes him feel like he’d either spontaneously combust or melt into an amorphous blob or both at the same time.

“I’m going to kiss you.”

“I’m not saying no.”

It’s been too long since George has allowed anything like this at all, having put blinkers on for so long, his every waking and even sleeping hours controlled to the last letter during a season. A life stuck fixated on a single north star. It’s been a while since he’s had even the chance for casual affairs, too, let alone getting the chance to get to know someone first before potentially taking them to bed—it’s still the goal here, he’s not a hypocrite. But in comparison, this is almost something resembling romance.

George’s fingers disappear in Lando’s curls and he sighs into the kiss, breathes in and tastes the last traces of the sweet and tart Pocari. Lets his mouth give way for Lando’s tracing of tongue, curious, tentative. Carrying a promise for more.

And it’s—gosh, nice. More than nice. The absolute bee’s knees, actually. 

* * *

It’s a quarter past midnight when George is back at his hotel room, almost tripping as he toes off his oxfords, collapsing onto the bed without taking his suit jacket off. It’s a huge sponsorship deal with Sony, another Toto masterstroke, while Valtteri attended a Shimano event. 

George still wonders why Lewis didn’t get picked to attend the Sony gala. Surely he has to be the face of the campaign when it actually begins?  _ Seven-time Formula One World Champion Lewis Hamilton _ is a much more enticing brand ambassador than  _ seven-time points finisher George Russell,  _ surely. 

George presses his eyes closed, covers them with his arm. A long, hot shower would do him good. He thinks himself good with people, has been told countless times he’s a sponsors’ darling—he makes an effort to continue to be. Always disciplined with highlighting whatever product he is told to: on camera, on social media, when he streams on Twitch. Stays away from controversy, PR-approved lines his sword and shield. It wears him down to the bones sometimes.

He wishes he could just do what he knows he does best: drive. And not have to focus on cultivating an image so tightly controlled he doesn’t recognize himself in the mirror.

(He wishes he, too, could have a pink-purple-blue enamel pin on his backpack. Or a decal on his helmet. Or an embroidery on his racing boots.)

The 6 Hours of Fuji can’t come soon enough. A week to go to lights out, a couple more events to attend until then. He’ll manage—it’s really nothing compared to being hounded by the media at the pen.

He shifts, wincing. The remote control he’s been lying on top of is increasingly uncomfortable, digging into his hip. So he fishes it out and turns the television set on. More for background noise than anything else, it’s not like he understands Japanese. But there should be some English language channel, surely? He cycles through the channels. Not finding anything interesting on BBC and CNN, he settles for NHK.

NHK is broadcasting reruns of some of today’s and yesterday’s Olympic events—swimming is on. Men’s individual medley just ended, another medal to Phelps’s tally. George is already watching with his eyes half shut when the broadcast cuts to another sport. He’s never watched fencing before, but perks up when he catches a glimpse of the Union Jack.

_GBR_ **L. Norris** 4-2 **J. Vergne** _FRA_

George thinks he knows the gist—the fencers have to touch specific target areas, and score points if they succeed, but that’s about the extent of his knowledge. The blows traded are much too fast for George to follow. It’s mesmerizing to watch, still, and he wishes he had the capacity of mind to pay proper attention to the match.

The athletes’ movements are choreographed to perfection, the battle a cautious dance lasting only a few seconds sometimes. On longer phases of play the fencers chase each other to the edge of the strip, always attacking with claws out and teeth bared. The LED lights help him keep track of who is awarded points for each phase of play, red and green lighting up in turn, sometimes simultaneously—no points given to either fencers. How exactly the points are awarded will remain a mystery to George for the time being.

The sound of squeaking trainers, the clashing of blades, and the sharp tone indicating a touch is detected by the electronic system is slowly fading into white noise as George edges back to the precipice of sleep. Then he is jolted awake by the sound of both fencers’ shouting cutting through the air, simultaneously pumping their fists, believing the point is theirs. They turn to the referee and remove their masks—

_ Now hold on second. That fencer sure looks familiar—wait— _ what _ the  _ fuck.

L. Norris.  _ Lando Norris. _

George sits up and blinks hard as he steps off the bed to sit on the floor, trying to rid himself of the last traces of drowsiness. The referee calls for a break after a tally of eight points is reached by—yeah, that’s Lando, alright. The camera is trained on him. He has his mask off, cradled under his arms as he talks to a person George assumes is his coach, nodding along to the instructions given as he wipes sweat off his face with a towel. He reads the scoreboard at the edge of Lando’s side of the strip.

**_Men’s Sabre Individual_ **

**_Gold Medal Bout_ **

Bloody hell.

Well, it might be a rerun, but George is  _ properly _ awake now.

The referee calls time, and the fencers ready themselves on the line.

_ “En garde! Prêts? Allez!” _

They are neck in neck, never more than a couple of points apart. George feels his pulse picking up as they reach double digits, wondering how many points will be needed for a win, hesitant to look it up online for fear of missing any action. There is no commentary to take cues from, so he listens to the crowd. At thirteen a piece, Vergne calls for a video review after what George gathers must be a close shave. He can’t decipher anything from the slow motion replay. It takes a while for the refereeing team to make a decision—the referee steps back to the side of the strip, makes a series of hand gestures, and points at Vergne. A decision overturned. Fourteen to thirteen. The camera pans to the French team’s box, the coach is going frenzied. It must be close then. To fifteen points?

_ Come on, Lando. _

Lando removes his helmet, calls for a pause and gestures to his weapon. He steps off the strip and heads toward his box.  _ What is he doing? _

George has his breath caught in his throat as he watches Lando pick up a new blade, shows it to the referee for inspection. There is a noticeable shift in Lando’s stance as he puts his mask back on, steps on the line.

_ “En garde! Prêts? Allez!” _

The crowd erupts. Fourteen all.

George lets out a shuddering breath, throat clicking.

_ “En garde! Prêts? Allez!” _

Flashes of red and green.

_ “Attaque simultanée! Rien!” _

No points awarded.

_ “En garde! Prêts? Allez!” _

Lando launches forward, blade up, lunging through the air for an attack but— _ misses, blade just off target _ —Vergne counters, forcing Lando back down the strip—red and green—

_ “Parade, riposte. Touche. Point!”  _

Lando rips his mask off, collapses to his knees, both hands covering his face. His coach surges into the strip and collects him in a tight embrace.

George snogged Olympic gold medal winner Lando Norris at a Tokyo back alley earlier today.

* * *

“Yeah, I was the flag bearer for Team GB.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Literally takes two seconds to google it, mate.” 

_ Two-time  _ Olympic medalist and  _ flag bearer  _ for Team Great Britain, as it turns out—Lando won bronze in Rio, the youngest fencer to ever win a medal at the Olympics. George closes Lando’s Wikipedia page and throws his phone on the bed behind him. It’s on loudspeaker.

“Bloody hell. Well, explains why you know your way around Tokyo quite well, I s’pose?”

“Yeah, there’s a World Cup event held here annually. And they hosted a Grand Prix and the World Championships last year too. I won the Grand Prix and got bronze in the World Championships.”

_ Grand Prix. _ George smiles to himself. Something in common. He nips the pang of envy at the nonchalant way Lando said  _ I won _ at the bud before it has a chance to take root and poison.

“Seriously though, congrats on the gold. I know absolutely fuck all about fencing but what I did see was absolutely impressive.”

“Cheers. It was tough,” Lando demurs. “Jev is a formidable opponent. I’ve not won against him before the Grand Prix in Cancún last year, and we’ve been up against each other often. Pretty sure he was playing his cards close to his chest for the Olympics then anyway and didn’t go all out so I lucked out on that one.”

“Jev?”

“Vergne. Jean-Éric Vergne. He goes by Jev.”

“Right.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised if I have to face him again in the team event. The French team is solid, but I think we still have just the slightest edge. Would prefer not to have to face Hungary or South Korea at all, on the other hand.”

“Team event? When’s that?”

“Wednesday. Come and cheer for us, if you have time? I can arrange you a ticket or even a spot at the box.”

“Oh, splendid, I’m free on Wednesday.” He’ll make time. He needs to be at the Fuji Speedway by Thursday afternoon, but it’s only a two-hour ride on the bullet train away. In a flash of boldness, he adds, “Afterparty here at mine if you win?”

Lando laughs, wheezing, infectious. “Can’t say no to that. The Olympic Village is decent, but it’s no Ritz. And my roommate snores too! Right—got to bounce now, training starts early tomorrow. G’night, George.”

As soon as the line cuts his phone chimes again.

A not quite PG-rated series of emojis.

A mirror selfie of Lando wearing little else but the gold medal he won yesterday around his neck.

Fucking hell.

* * *

George prepares for the team event by watching  _ Fencing, Explained  _ videos on YouTube and tries reading Wikipedia articles to acquaint himself with the rules. He still can’t quite distinguish between the three different fencing disciplines—foil, sabre, épée—with confidence, but as soon as he’s back at his hotel room after yet another event with Sony, he immediately takes his laptop out and logs in to iPlayer with VPN to catch the Men’s Foil Individual Gold Medal Bout.  _ You’ve got to watch it if you have time, guaranteed to be a cracker,  _ Lando texted him earlier on his way back.

_MON_ **C. Leclerc** 7-5 **S. Vettel** _GER_

The second period is just about to start when his phone rings.

“Back yet? We were having a watch party but got sent to our rooms like school kids after Jack’s bout’s over. He just won bronze, for fuck’s sake. It’s not even close to our bedtime yet.”

“Just arrived, yeah. You still watching?”

“‘Course I am— _ holy fuck, that was an insane parry-riposte by Seb.” _

George puts the phone on loudspeaker as Lando commentates on the match, giving play by play analysis, highlighting the differences between his own discipline and foil fencing. The match is being stopped at ten a piece, the referees huddling by the video replay screen. “Oh fuck, they’re gonna give Leclerc a red card, aren’t they. He’s already on a yellow earlier.”

“Oh? What happens if he gets a red?”

“Point deducted and given to Seb.”

“Oh wow. That’s crucial at ten all.”

“Yeah, I mean it’s a pretty slam dunk penalty for covering, dunno what the hell Leclerc’s thinking. See, in foil, you’re not allowed to replace the target area with other parts of the body when the initial attack is expected to land. Look at the replay—” 

Jargon George read on Wikipedia once and hasn’t quite learned by heart flows in rapid succession as Lando tries and fails to explain the referees’ decision. He finds himself not minding one bit—he explains it with such passion and enthusiasm George finds so infectious. Lando’s rapid speech may be a little difficult to follow sometimes, and not only because he throws in fencing terms every two words, but he knows he can listen to him talk for hours.

He knows how it feels, of course. Dedicating your entire life to a sport, for a single dream, working day and night for even a shot at glory. The mental fortitude it takes to bounce back from setbacks, making adjustments to your craft, training until your muscles scream with ache and your lungs feel like they are about to pop. Victory and defeat split by mere hundreths of a second of reaction time.

But George is very much aware they are nowhere near each other achievement-wise. Lando, a year his junior, Olympic gold medalist.  _ Double _ gold medalist in a few days, potentially.

Sure, there is an air of glamor surrounding a racing driver, especially one competing in what is considered to be the pinnacle of motorsports. But he has yet to have anything to show for it—only getting into F1 is not nearly enough, especially when he’s nowehere near the sharp end of the field most of the fucking time. 

Sakhir still stings to this date. He’s not so presumptuous as to think he  _ deserved _ the win,  _ god, no. _ What exactly constitutes as  _ deserving, _ anyway? He’s done all he could and beyond. The jigsaw pieces didn’t fall into place.

“Oi, George? Ground Control to Major Tom, are you still listening?”

“What—yeah—no, sorry I got distracted by something. How’s it looking?”

“The final period is just starting—”

George sighs, sits up straighter. Twelve a piece.

Maybe one day, one day, when he’s standing on the top step of the podium again, the taste of the bubbly in his mouth and the solid weight of the winner’s trophy in his fingers, he can finally exorcise his demons.

* * *

Makuhari Messe Hall, where the fencing events are held, is located in a neighboring prefecture just outside Tokyo, about an hour by car and one-and-a-half by public transport. The Table of 16 matches start at ten.

Still not quite attuned to the timezone after a week, waking up at half six feels a little too early, but George did get his full eight hours. He goes down to the gym, follows the summer break training plan, showers and eats breakfast, and by half eight, he’s in a taxi to Chiba. The lanyard around his neck feels familiar from having worn track access cards and paddock passes all his life—Lando had it delivered to the front desk yesterday.

_ Use the athletes’ entrance,  _ Lando texts him on the way.  _ Tell security you’re with Team GB. _

George breezes past the checkpoints as soon as he arrives. It reminds him of being in the paddock on race days, bustling with activity, the air charged with excitement and thick with tension.

He catches a glimpse of the fencers warming up in a designated hall through an open door, and stops to look. He spots Lando at the far side of the room, removing his mask, just finished doing a warm up bout against one of his teammates—Alexander Lynn, gold medalist at last year’s World Fencing Championships, according to the name emblazoned on his back.

Yes, George has done a bit of homework. He’s got to cheer for his compatriots, alright.

He tries waving at Lando, but he doesn’t look up, sitting cross-legged on the floor on the side of the practice strip with his weapon on his lap and a towel draped on his head. Lynn meanwhile is chatting away with Ilott in the middle of the strip—Callum Ilott, last year’s bronze and silver medal winner at the Seoul and Le Caire Sabre Grands Prix.

Lando looks—tense. A stark contrast compared to the person he met at the arcades and at the Tsukiji Market, the person he’s been texting and talking to this past week. It’s different when you’re playing in a team, perhaps. Not everything is within your sphere of control, you need to trust your teammates, and likewise, your teammates are relying on you—an added burden to carry on your shoulders.

The matches start in ten minutes. George steps away from the door, turning to head for the hall and look for his seat, when he feels a tap on his shoulder.

“George? George Russell?”

He freezes. He should be semi-used to this, having had to deal with the handful of fans who recognized him off track, at airports or when he is out and about in London. Is he caught up in a false sense of security? Japan  _ does  _ have a decent motorsports following. It takes him a moment to recover before George turns on his heels.

“Hey,” George smiles when he sees the person addressing him. George is just about to extend a hand, but he is carrying his mask on one hand and is shouldering his weapons bag on the other. “Callum, right? Pleasure, mate.”

Callum puts his mask on his head to free up his hand, offering it to George. “This has got to be the last place on Earth I’d expect to run into you.”

“Stranger things have happened, surely.”

“It’s summer break, shouldn’t you be fucking off on holiday somewhere?” Callum looks genuinely baffled. “Or is watching the Games your holiday?”

“You follow F1?” George blurts out dumbly.  _ Eh, duh. _

“I do, yeah. I went to school with Mick—lived in Switzerland growing up and took up fencing there. We still keep in touch, so I owe it to him to follow F1, I suppose.”

“No way, that’s mad! Nice one, nice one. Small world. And I’m here in Japan to race, actually, so really more business than pleasure.”

“Right, how could I forget! You and Bottas are doing Fuji this weekend, right? Think I might’ve read it on Twitter yesterday. Mercedes holds nothing back, huh. Another racing series to conquer.”

“Yeah! Proper excited, I’ve been racing single seaters for so long, endurance racing in prototypes is an entirely different beast.”

“Le Mans on the cards anytime soon?”

“Nah, don’t think so. I’d love to, though, but the F1 calendar is a right prick if you want to do Le Mans— _ shit,  _ don’t tell anyone I said that.”

Callum laughs, nudges George with his mask. “Your secret’s safe with me. F1 drivers and all the PR eggshells, huh. You lot can be so dreadfully boring sometimes. Right, I’ve got to go, the matches start soon. Dunno what Lando and Alex are still up to.”

“Right, of course! Very best of luck, mate, bring that gold home!”

“Cheers!”

* * *

The Table of 16 and the Quarterfinal matches are not  _ exactly _ a breeze. It never is at a stage as prestigious as the Olympic Games. But from what George gathers from the matches—which are, unfortunately for him and the rest of Team GB, played on the strips farthest away from their seats—they have the clear edge. They trade blows with the Canadian and US fencers in the first few bouts of the respective matches, but then pull away comfortably towards the second half of the matches.

“Never in doubt, never in doubt,” the person just behind George remarks when Ilott makes the score forty-five to thirty-three for Team GB with a beautiful flunge—flying lunge, hitting the US fencer square on the mask.  _ Attaque, touche, point.  _ George turns to him. A face he’s definitely seen before. He takes a glance at his ID card as confirmation, remembers reading about him on Wikipedia and the FIE website.

“Jack Aitken?” George offers his hand. “Congrats on the bronze, mate.”

He turns to George, mildly startled, but takes his hand and shakes it, grinning. “Hey, cheers!”

“I’m George.”

“Ah, Lando’s friend! Jack, pleasure to meet you. He might’ve mentioned you, yeah,” Aitken—Jack—quickly adds as he stands up before George can ask. “He’s right about you.”

“Pardon?”

“You’re cute.”

_ What?  _ “Er—what?”

Jack laughs, giving George a hearty slap in the back before making his exit.

The announcer’s voice echoes through the hall, too loud, too enthusiastic. The Semifinal matches are about to start. The strips used at the earlier rounds have been covered up, leaving a single strip in the middle of the field. Great Britain versus Switzerland will be played first, followed by France versus Hungary.

Strobe lights flash in a burst of colors as the team members are introduced, a spotlight following each sabreur as they step into the  _ piste  _ to salute the crowd. George almost feels like he’s stepped into a rock concert or a rave, the roar of the crowd is so loud. The hall wasn’t this packed during the earlier rounds, and they’ve forgone the festivities then. He almost wishes he has his ear protectors with him.

Now playing on a strip front and center, George can finally try to follow the action closely. The match is starting. Alexander Lynn steps into the _piste_ for the first of nine bouts. He salutes the referee and his opponent, Sébastien Buemi, then puts on his mask.

_ “En garde! Prêts? Allez!” _

**_Men’s Sabre Team Table of 16_ **

CAN 22 - 45 **GBR**

**_Men’s Sabre Team Quarterfinals_ **

**GBR** 45 - 33 USA

**_Men’s Sabre Team Semifinals_ **

**GBR** 45 - 41 SUI

**FRA** 45 - 44 HUN

* * *

Team Great Britain’s Semifinal match was a nail-biter: the first bout ended four to five in favor of Switzerland, every sabreur evenly matched before Team GB recovered in the last bout from 39-40 to make it 45-41. A controversial call at 40-41 worried George slightly, with Lando losing his composure and getting a yellow card. He recovered and scored five touches in a row, the final touch being a parry-riposte George didn’t quite register, it was so rapid.

Which brings us to the Gold Medal match.  _ Never in doubt. _

It doesn’t feel quite right to think of it almost as a given that they’re going to make it this far, to take the blood, sweat, and tears it must’ve taken them to reach this stage for granted, a guaranteed medal to their tally. But they  _ are _ making it seem as if it were a god-given right. There is a sense of absolute conviction in the way they battle on the  _ piste,  _ a sense of inevitability, almost. Something George can’t quite put a name to, but knows he’s witnessed in racing. The closest comparison that comes to mind is seeing Lewis race. An unstoppable force no matter the adversity—if he had to finish on three wheels, then he would.  _ Has done _ so. It’s quite simply breathtaking.

George almost startles when he feels a tap on his shoulder.

“Alright?” Jack almost has to shout to be heard. “Mind if I sit with you? I’ve been told I have a tendency to talk and talk and talk.”

“Oh no, not at all, would be my pleasure! I’ve literally only started watching fencing like, what, three days ago? Would be terrific if someone explains to me what’s going on.”

“Huh, really.” Jack settles into the seat next to him. “Where did Lando even find you?”

George laughs, shaking his head. “Stranded in the middle of Akihabara Station because I ran out of cash. I didn’t even know he’s competing in the Olympics.”

_ “Competing,” _ Jack snickers. “He’s only one of the best sabre fencers of our generation, mate. Luckily I’ll never have to compete against him.”

“I’ve been made aware, yeah. How do you fancy our chances for gold?”

“We’re on par with France. On paper Hungary is the strongest team in sabre, they have a two-time Olympic champion and was ranked number one going into the Olympics. France really pulled quite a feat there. A bit lucky, if you ask me, Gasly shouldn’t be awarded that touch at 38-37. And I’m still shocked South Korea didn’t at least make the Semis, to be honest.”

Jack proceeds to break down the Semifinal match between France and Hungary and the French team’s strategy. George tries to follow along to little avail, but he tries his best to listen anyway, until music starts blaring from the speakers again. Kanye’s  _ All of the Lights _ followed by  _ The Final Countdown,  _ classic and cliché, the too-powerful bass reverberating through his body.

_ “En garde! Prêts? Allez!” _

The first two bouts are very evenly matched: Gasly taking the first one 4-5 for the French team, then Ilott retakes the lead in the second bout to make it 10-9 for Team GB.

Lando is up against Fenestraz next— _ “They trained together for years and were roommates for a bit, this is going to be a tad personal.” _ The first two points are won by Lando, an explosive attack and a missed parry by Fenestraz, before he wins the next two and makes it 12-11. Twice their attacks are called at the same time, no points awarded to either of them. Fenestraz makes it twelve a piece by parrying Lando’s attack after he pushes him near the end of the strip.

“Whoa, that was very close, Sacha’s toes were barely on the line,” Jack remarks, and George only nods.

The fencers ready themselves again. Fenestraz charges forward, forcing Lando to scramble back to the end of his side of the  _ piste _ this time, but he misses the attack and Lando forces him the other way. He surges forward, feet lightning quick, goes for a lunge—

Lando seizes mid-lunge, loses balance and slips, and the play is called off. 

“Oh, no, no, no. Fuck’s sake. His hamstring is acting up again, isn’t it.” Jack looks genuinely concerned, leaning forward in his seat with his jaw clenched.

George feels his stomach clenching. “Will he be alright?”

“Think so,” Jack sighs. “ _ Hope so. _ He got it two years ago and he told me he’s recovered well since but it acts up every now and then. The sabre team doesn’t have an alternate.”

Fenestraz approaches Team GB’s box to check up on Lando as they wait for the medic to arrive, exchanging a few words and pats on the shoulders before he makes his way back to his side of the  _ piste, _ taking a seat and covering his face with a towel. The referee calls for the standard ten-minute injury time.  _ “Norris is receiving treatment, the action will restart shortly”  _ booms from the speakers.

Lando is laid down with his jacket and half-sleeve removed, and the paramedic starts to—well, this is possibly the  _ worst _ timing possible to think this. He’s injured, for fuck’s sake.

But he has his ballistic trousers off as well so the medic and physiotherapist can have access to his thigh for the treatment. And it’s a decidedly  _ compromising _ position, on the floor, right leg folded to his chest. George has to force himself to look away and take a deep breath after they are finished applying kinesio tape, wondering how it would feel like against his tongue later this evening. Lando would let him, surely, if he’s lucky.

“Okay, he’s on his feet and he isn’t moving too weird, that’s good news,” Jack observes, snapping George out of his debauched thoughts. He hopes he’s not blushing or something embarrassing like that. “He’ll have to play through the pain. Won’t be much fun but he’ll make it, I think.”

“He still has to play two more bouts, right?”

“Yeah. And I’d wager Susie’s put him up for the last bout too. It’s usually a no-brainer to put your best fencer last in a match of nine bouts.”

The rest of the bout is excruciating to watch—Lando gets a touch with what Jack calls  _ “a Lando special, adopting the Hungarian _ tierce-quarte-quinte _ system and then turning it on its head, truly quite special,” _ whatever that’s supposed to mean, but Fenestraz takes the rest of the points to make it 13-15 for the French team. Even from the relative distance George notices how Lando is  _ seething, _ shoulders tense, his ungloved non-dominant hand turning white from gripping his mask too tight.

Both teams continue to be neck in neck, the score at 24-25 for the French team when Lando steps into the  _ piste _ again to face Gasly. He seems to be alright at a glance, still moving with his usual speed and agility in George’s eyes, but Jack remarks his more errant footwork, less disciplined and more sluggish when he has to defend Gasly’s advancing and pushing him backwards. All the touches he’s given away are at the longer bouts, but he makes it up with his swift, explosive attacks, always first to land the blows, making it 30-29 for Team GB. 

And the battling teams continue to be separable by little else but a hairline, sabre fencing played at the highest of levels: Lynn making it 35-34 versus Vergne in the seventh, Callum making it 40-38 versus Ocon in the eighth and penultimate bout.

_ “Ladies and gentlemen, for the final bout of the Men’s Sabre Team Gold Medal Match. Please welcome the world’s number one and two, the gold and silver medal winners of the Individual event in the 2020 Olympics, Lando Norris and Jean-Éric Vergne!” _

* * *

**_Men’s Sabre Team Gold Medal Match_ **

GBR 44 - 45 **FRA**

* * *

The dressing room is—somber despite it being so bright it almost stings George’s eyes. The cold hue of the fluorescent lighting illuminating the space gives it a hollow, clinical edge, hostile and unwelcoming. The smell of soap and water vapor from the neighboring shower stalls masks the stale stench of old sweat not quite scrubbed off by cleaning products, but it’s there. Glaring like a fly in the ointment, a drop of poison tainting a cauldron of milk. Fitting, he reckons.

Silver is, of course, a massive achievement in its own right. But that close, too close to the finishing line, mere millimeters and tenths of seconds and being denied—well, it has to sting. 

“I let my team down.”

Lando has not taken his eyes off the floor since George makes his entrance, as if the fundamental mysteries of the universe were inscribed on the ceramic tiles waiting to be deciphered. They’ve been sitting next to each other in silence for a while now, shoulders not quite touching. The sharp edges of the bench are starting to feel uncomfortable under him. Lando finally speaking up is definitely a good thing. He’s barely spoken to his coach or any of his teammates after the match concluded, according to Jack. 

“Jev took  _ seven  _ points from me.”

George turns to face Lando. “You were playing through your injury, mate, and held your own brilliantly! And,” —George catches himself before he says _ you only lost by a point _ — “only a point separated you and the French team.”

“Yeah.  _ Runner’s up.”  _ Lando traces a thumb on the medal around his neck. Sighing, he takes it off, tossing it into his backpack. “The first loser, more like.”

George clenches and unclenches his fist, hesitating, before deciding to put a hand on Lando’s shoulder. “Lando, c’mon now. That’s a massive achievement and you know it.”

“My teammates fought tooth and nail until the end and then when it’s my turn I fucking flopped,” Lando scoffs, words dripping with venom.

“Lando, hey. That’s unfair to yourself and you know it. Again, you’re  _ injured. _ If you push yourself too hard you could fuck your body up.”

“It’s just fucking frustrating not to be able to give your everything, you know? When you’re  _ that _ close to winning. And it’s some bloody rotten luck denying you.”

“I know it all too bloody well, mate,” George laughs bitterly, leaning back into the wall.

“Do you, now?”

“Actually, yeah.”

Silence falls between them again. George notices in his peripheral vision that Lando has turned to face him, a questioning look in his eyes. He’s stopped scrutinizing the floor. Progress.

“Doesn’t matter. So, uh, still keen on going back to mine?” George tries instead, an eyebrow raised, resting a hand on Lando’s thigh. “Thought you can use some distraction. I mean, uh, we don’t  _ have _ to, like—do anything, but my room has a nice bathtub, you can use it if you’re keen—”

He is cut off by the press of Lando’s warm lips against his, a fist balling up on the fabric of his t-shirt, tugging as Lando shifts to pull them closer together, almost settling into George’s lap. He’s taking that as a yes— 

The door swings open.

George freezes before his brain kicks into gear, pulling himself away from Lando in a haste. It feels  _ ridiculous,  _ really. Like caught doing teenage indiscretion.

Callum rolls his eyes as he makes his way to pick up his weapons bag lying on the bench across them. “Lads, lads, lads. Get a room.”

Before either of them can respond, he turns to George. “Don’t worry,” Callum smiles, making a mouth-zipping gesture. “Secret’s safe with me.” He shoulders his weapons bag. “Lando, you’re still invited if you want to get smashed with us at the Village. Though I don’t think Maccies and Asahi will be enough to sway you to join. As you were, lads.”

He can’t exactly tell how much time has elapsed since Callum’s gone, but when Lando finally speaks up again, George nearly jumps in surprise.

“What’s that about? You know Callum?”

_ Right. _ He never did tell Lando and he seems to be none the wiser still.

“Not really, we just chatted a bit earlier.” George pauses. “I—er, I happen to race against his friend.”

Lando tilts his head, brows furrowed. “You race against Callum’s fr—you’re having a laugh, mate.” Lando’s mouth falls agape, but he recovers quickly.  _ “You’re an F1 driver?” _

“Last I checked, I am, yeah.”

“The  _ fuck  _ are you doing here?”

“Racing, actually, 6 Hours of Fuji this weekend.” George rubs the back of his neck before his hand settles on Lando’s thigh again. “And trying to get into your pants now too, I s’pose.”

It’s nice hearing Lando’s laughter again. “Well, you’re succeeding.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you reckon it would count as starfucking? So I can tick that item off my bucket list.”

_ “Oh my god.” _

* * *

The cab ride back to The Ritz almost feels like a déjà vu—the strained atmosphere, the awkward silence. Lando has folded back into himself, leaning against the window, facing away from George, fidgeting on the aglets of his hoodie. The streetlights and billboards frame the contours of his jawline and the outlines of his curls in vivid hues, and he looks almost—untouchable. Off somewhere distant George daren’t follow. The press of their forearms and knees is however reassuring.

They don’t exchange a single word, not even as Lando follows him up to his room, gaze once again glued to the floor. Lando pads his way to the window as soon as they arrive, ripping the curtain open. His weapons bag and rucksack land with a dull thud against one of the armchairs. He angles the other armchair towards the sprawling megalopolis beneath him. Just a relatively short distance away, the Tokyo Tower soars high above the concrete jungle, illuminated with the colors of the rainbow for the Olympics. Lando climbs into the chair and folds himself there, leaning sideways on the back of the chair, knees drawn up to his chin.

“Lando?” George tries. He makes his approach, leans his weight against the back of the chair. “You alright?”

He merely hums.

“You’ve done brilliant, yeah? You’ve won  _ a lot _ , hell, you’ve won gold just a few days ago.”

George hears Lando scoff, still not facing him.

“Try tossing around at the back of the field wondering what the hell you’re still doing all this for,” George snickers before he can stop himself, very much aware of how bitter he sounds. “Fuck, sorry, I don’t mean to make it about myself. But seriously though, I envy you,” he continues, immediately regretting it.

Lando finally snaps his head and turns at him, head tilted.  _ “Me?” _

_ “ _ You’ve not only won the fucking lot. You’re—well. You seem to be in a good place. Comfortable in your own skin. And,” George makes a vague gesture at Lando’s backpack. The enamel pin glints under the low ambient light. “Meanwhile I’ll never be able to be out anytime soon if I don’t want to do my career in.”

Lando shifts to face George properly now, but he still keeps their eyes from meeting properly. “That sucks. I’m sorry.” He reaches a hand out and touches George’s stomach, feeling the material of his t-shirt, making George’s breath catch. “Fuck, I sound like an ungrateful prick, don’t I.”

“Hey, you have every right to be frustrated. Doesn’t take away from your achievements.”

“S’pose so.” Lando glances up, his smile weary, unsteady. His hand shifts to run down George’s arm, taking his hand and lightly squeezing it. “S’not all smooth sailing for me either, I’ve been given a lot of stick in certain countries I competed in. But at least it’s not something I need to worry about career-wise. Being good at what you do should be enough.”

George sighs, squeezing back. The touch feels grounding. “It’s just the way it is.”

“Yeah, and it shouldn’t be.”

George shrugs, feigning nonchalance but not quite sticking the landing. Tries not to think of all the times he had to endure hurtful remarks from people he thought he could trust. Tries to banish the memory of all the times he was reminded that he had no place in the sport he’s pledged his life to.

Failing. 

He feels his heart clench. Takes deep, measured breaths to temper the acerbic taste in his mouth and the bile rising from stomach. “Look, can we, you know. Give this a rest for now, yeah?” he tries instead. More for himself than anything. “I can think of more interesting ways to spend the night than talk about all this depressing stuff.”

Lando nods slowly, hopping off the armchair and standing up, finally meeting his eyes properly. He looks knackered, George thinks, stripped bare of his laser-focused intensity and aggression he’s seen when Lando is on the  _ piste _ geared up for battle. No trace of the sabreur who won an Olympic medal just before turning seventeen, and then two more a lustrum after. His eyes are slowly regaining their spark, however, and the smile playing at the edges of his lips is growing increasingly wicked, blooming into a full grin as he guides George back with a hand on his sternum. Resistance is futile.

He almost lets out an undignified yelp when Lando gives him a not-so-gentle shove, almost tripping on his own feet before landing on the bed. And Lando goes with him easily, straddling his lap, lips crashing into his. And he lets himself melt into it, letting Lando set the pace and pry his mouth open, the slide of their tongues making George’s stomach flip. God, it’s been too long.

“Got any ideas?” Lando murmurs against his lips before withdrawing, hands still cradling George’s jaw.

“How about,” George pauses, biting his lip, trying to stifle his own laughter. “How about  _ sword fighting.  _ You seem to have quite the expertise.”

_ “Oh my god.” _

“Yeah, fair, fair, that was bad.”

“That was  _ absolutely dreadful, _ mate,” Lando scolds as he disentangles himself from George, trying to hold it in and not quite managing, laughter bubbling up from his chest before turning into full on wheezing. “Just—absolutely dreadful, George, oh my god.”

_ “Sorry,” _ George grins, sheepish, standing up and approaches Lando, putting his hands on either side of his waist. “Still keen?”

“You are on thin fucking ice, mate.”

But Lando doesn’t protest when he pulls them to press flush against each other again, hands sneaking beyond the hem of Lando’s jumper, making him gasp as George maps the crests of his abs. He nudges him to lift his arms so George can tug his hoodie off, and—George’s breath catches. Lando’s shoulders and forearm are marred with angry slashes and bruising from taking the blade, the speed and momentum it carries seeming to be enough to injure despite the layer of kevlar protective jacket.

“Looks worse than it is,” Lando assures, reading his mind.

“Does it hurt?” George whispers as he runs a finger on the darkening bruise on Lando’s forearm, up his shoulder blades, and onto the long, fierce red mark on his clavicle.

“I’m used to it— _ oh,”  _ Lando gasps as George leans down and presses his lips on the hollow between his collarbones, peppering soft kisses up Lando’s shoulder, one hand settling on the small of his back and the other on the side of his neck, gentle. “’M not made of glass, George.”

“Of course, yeah.”

So he goes for open mouthed kisses this time, tongue and teeth dragging across tender skin, fingers digging into Lando’s bicep, earning him a sharp gasp. George inches ever lower down Lando’s abdomen, licking a stripe down his abs, sinking to his knees. He looks up, biting his lip. His pulse feels so loud against his eardrums, the weight of anticipation scorching every last edge of his reason. He wants. Heavens,  _ he wants.  _ “Yeah?”

Lando hums, nodding with almost frantic enthusiasm, threading his fingers in George’s hair as he tugs Lando’s basketball shorts down and his underwear with it. George looks up again, smiling, before he lets his mouth give and take Lando in, wrapping his lips around him, working him.

For a moment the room stills, save for the sound of them, skin lying upon skin, gaps and labored breathing and soft moans. He wills himself from thinking too much, focusing on Lando’s cues, letting him lead with his body. A lap of tongue here, a firm stroke of fingers there.

“ _ Oh—fuck,  _ yeah, you feel so good, George,” Lando manages. George feels himself shudder, sparks of pride effervescent in his chest. Perhaps there still are some things he can do just right. Lando’s declining coherence is a good indication, he reckons. The taste of him starting to fill his mouth, too. Lando tugs softly at George’s hair and eases himself back.

“D’you—have you got a condom?”

_ Oh, fuck. _

“Don’t you get any given out to you at the Village? Think I read somewhere that there are millions allocated to the athletes for each Games.”

“I mean sure, the Olympic Village is a bonefest, but it’s not like they hand them out in a care package or something. You have to _ask_ for them. And I don’t, uhm, _go_ _there_ while I’m competing.”

“Right, yeah. Well, this is a massive, massive oversight. But we can still do—other things?”

“Yeah, like what,  _ sword fighting?  _ Fuck’s sake, George.”

“I know the crotch is not a valid target in sabre, but I s’pose I got to try my luck.”

_ “George. Shut the fuck up or I’ll throw you out of your own bloody room.” _

* * *

Lando does take him up on the offer—George runs him a bath, having opted for the shower instead. He goes through the complementary bath salts and bath bombs in the cabinet as he towels his hair dry. The peach-scented one is an offensive shade of magenta and tangerine. Perfect. He drops it into the water, feeling it fizz against his skin as he dips a hand into the tub to gauge the temperature, hoping it’s to Lando’s liking.

He simply grins and shrugs when Lando fixes him a glare at the sight of the neon-bright water, but he doesn’t lodge a protest, stepping into the tub and settling in with a sigh. Room service is due to arrive anytime now. He’ll nick a bite from the gâteau au chocolat Lando ordered, surely Aleix wouldn’t be too cross if he makes up for it tomorrow morning at the gym.

“So you’re racing this weekend?” Lando asks, slicking his hair back, wild curls matted to his scalp. He is flushed all the way to his chest, the water making his skin glisten. George finds himself wanting to place kisses on the sabre marks on his clavicle again. “I was actually hoping we could hang out some more after the team event. Drag you along to watch the foil and epée team events.”

“I’d be down for that, actually,” George smiles as he moves from his perch at the edge of the bathtub to sit on the floor, avoiding the patch of water on the tiles from when Lando splashed it at him. Thank heavens for underfloor heating, he’d freeze his arse off without. “But you’ve still got to explain it all to me sometime. I mean I did enjoy the matches, but it looked like you’re trying to poke each other in a bee suit to me even if Jack so kindly provided running commentary.”

“Rich, coming from someone who drives cars in circles for a living.”

“Touché.”

Lando laughs, delighted, reaching out to smack George on the side of his face. “See, you’re learning already!”

“Still haven’t got a clue how the points are awarded ninety percent of the time, mate. And who has the right of way.”

“You should always look at the feet first, then the hands. That’s _ the  _ basic of determining who has the right of way in an attack.”

“And you’re only telling me that  _ now? _ Would’ve made my life so much easier.”

“I need to keep you interested,” Lando snickers, sinking back into the water. “Can’t show you all the cards at once.”

“Well, I already am.” George smiles before inching closer to the tub, learning his back against it. “Interested, that is.”

He feels a hand on his shoulder, giving him a light squeeze.

“Me too.”

The water from Lando’s hand soaks through his t-shirt, and he wonders why he even bothered putting one on when he is notorious for not being shy of flaunting his bare torso on the ‘Gram. Most of the posts weren’t actually his idea, but well.  _ It’s the way it is. Smile and wave, smile and wave. _

George presses his lips together into a tight smile. No use in dwelling on it now. At least the t-shirt isn’t a white one, small mercies. Then he realizes, “Er—where are you based, again? Never thought to ask.”

“London. You?”

Guess sometimes he’s allowed to have blinding, jammy luck. “Same. I’m never around much during the season, but yeah, let’s meet up when I’m in town. I can take you to go karting, if you like?”

“Sounds fun.”

“Or you can take me to your fencing club so I can try. You know...”

_ “George.” _

* * *

(Lights out at the Fuji Speedway is in fifteen minutes.

He tucks away the pink-purple-blue enamel pin in the pocket of his race suit. Perhaps he should do more endurance racing for the benefits of having pockets alone.)

* * *

  


**Author's Note:**

> [Spotify Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0GLz83p4mCkAfUc2RROMcH?si=UFJJu8SmT0qdSxnKx0lvEA)


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